Next I call up a fresh search, this time for
star-map.
A program launches and black fills the screen. A single text frame appears.
Enter system identifier
We’re making progress, except for one problem—restored memories of geography are lagging behind all the rest. I haven’t a clue where we are.
“Dave, what system is this?”
“Orn.”
“That’s it? Just Orn?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot that systems are named after the star.”
“No.”
Even so, the name of our nearest star seems foreign. Probably because I think of it as simply the sun, regardless of the system. It seems goofy otherwise—an ornny day with warm ornshine begins at ornrise and ends with ornset. Sounds like nonsense from a dream. Regardless, I scoot the spid and click the bird, then enter Orn. Sure, and all that makes perfect sense.
The screen presents a diagram of the star and surrounding planets, along with a description.
Ornal system. Eight planets orbiting the yellow dwarf Orn. Three inhabitable: three, four, and six. Orn-3 primary base of Association operations.
Each planet is listed by number, its position counting outward from the star. But these planets have names, I know they do. I just don’t remember what they are.
“Dave, what’s this planet called?”
“You mean, the one we’re on now?”
“No, some planet halfway across the galaxy. Of course the one we’re on now, dumb-ass.”
“Like it says, Orn-3.”
“Yeah, I understand it’s the third planet, but what’s the name?”
“That’s how they do it, they don’t use names. They identify all planets by star and orbit number.”
“What about four and six? We don’t call them by number, do we?”
“No, we’re the rebels. Like I said, that’s an Association thing.”
“Right, I get it. So what are the names?”
“Four is Idan. You know, our planet.”
“Of course I know we’re from Idan.”
Huh? But I didn’t know a second ago. Strange to recall forgetting, now that I remember.
“And six?” I ask.
He chuckles. “The big one. I figured you’d get that all on your own, since you went there so much.”
“I did?”
“You know, coordinating affairs with a certain commander.”
Affairs?
Don’t tell me I’ve been fooling around in another garden.
“Who?” I ask.
He stares incredulously at the idiot me. “Duh, you bonehead.
Chris.
”
“Oh. I mean, right. She’s from Theabis. I knew that.”
Memory is the weirdest thing. All it takes is one little tickle. But with the recollection comes a painful reminder—where could she be, and how will I find her? A search by eye color, hair, gender? I’ve nothing else to go on. There must be so many subjects. How will I find the single person I’m looking for?
Dave asks, “Why are you looking up Orn? I thought we’re looking for the Restricted Zone.”
“I want to see where it is from here.”
Searching the array of pull-down menus, I find an option for secondary location. Without a specific star name, all we can do is supply the sector and level, and hope that works. It does—the diagram scales down and the star-map presents the stretch of space between Orn and the Restricted Zone, complete with detailed measurements and astronomic trajectories. The distant location now included in the diagram appears empty, unlike the Ornal system, which neighbors a multitude of stars populated by a diverse collection of planets. The Restricted Zone seems a lonely corner of the galaxy, though a single star is listed, labeled
Sol.
I click the lone star and the diagram zooms in to provide details. A flashing message appears on the screen.
WARNING: Restricted Zone. Travel into or out of the Solar system is strictly prohibited without express authorization and is limited exclusively to activities relating to the R & R program.
Below the diagram is a description.
Solar system. Ten planets orbiting the yellow dwarf Sol. Three inhabitable: three, four, and five.
“That’s funny,” Dave says.
“What now?”
“The star name.”
“Why? What’s so funny about it?”
“It’s like an acronym. You know, S-O-L, for Shit Outta Luck.”
Perhaps an appropriate label, though I doubt our missing friends would find it so humorous. But then, stripped of their true identity, they wouldn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or be angry. Only to survive, in a world devised by our enemy, whatever that world may be.
* * *
We have a destination, now we need directions. Without a diagram listing specific coordinates, the mission has stalled. I search the pull-down menus and find an option for hard copy. From a slot below the screen, a screeching carriage plods side to side, and curly paper slowly emerges.
Dave says, “Ah, Adam . . .”
“What?” I ask, more interested in the flimsy scroll the computer is printing. The lazy pace it creeps out of the slot is terribly frustrating. I thought computers were quick. I could copy it down by hand faster than the damn thing.
He says, “Our friend seems to be missing.”
My attention rockets to our bound victim, who is gone. Only a pile of wimpy string and the paper towels.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
The bastard turned us in.
Competing with the droning alarm, an urgent voice booms from a loudspeaker: “Intruder alert. Security personnel to section C. Intruder alert. Security personnel to section C.”
“That’s us,” Dave says.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
We should hide. Then what? That’s stupid, they’ll find us and we’re toast anyway. What can we do? We can’t just stand here, they’re coming to get us.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
Out the door won’t work. The window? I’m in no mood for more of that. I don’t know what to do. Dave stares at me, expecting a solution.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
Maybe I could think if that damn alarm would shut up—it’s driving me nuts!
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
The door is our only option. We’ll have to take our chances in the hallway. If we’re lucky, we may escape with what we’ve learned so far.
We sprint for the door. Wait—the coordinates. We need the diagram. I hurry back to the computer and tear the precious information from the slot. It appears complete. No time—the curly paper goes into a pocket and I catch up with Dave.
I crack the door open just a sliver. The corridor is stuffed full of Bobs marching past. I slap the door shut.
“This isn’t good.”
Dave glares like it’s all my fault. “Ya think?”
The door bursts open, nearly off its hinges. A cluster of Bobs stands in the doorway, loaded with weaponry.
We’re at the end of the line. There’s no talking our way out of this one.
* * *
Bob’s scorching glare says it all—something unpleasant is next, just around the corner. Torture, interrogation, and without a doubt, our fiery end.
Bob says, “You two, come with us.”
Others step forward and we’re hauled into the corridor. Oh man, we’re done. No ridiculous story will save us this time, not a chance. Goons close in to surround us, shove urgently, and coax us along. Another Bob approaches, pissed off and ornery like all the rest, but worse—armed with three blast rifles. He hands one to Dave, and another to me.
“Fall in, soldiers, we have intruders.”
The thugs charge away and join the advancing crowd, leaving me and Dave behind, stunned by the gracious gift of deadly weapons.
“It’s not us?” Dave asks, twisting his rifle to view all sides like it might be a toy.
I don’t know what to say, unsure of what’s happening, my confused thoughts racing to catch up with an unbelievable reality. Seems fate shines a good light on us today. Still, a fresh pair of shorts might be nice, and maybe that elusive bucket to catch the spew my stomach wants to hurl. I’m tempted to run and hide, but the Bobs expect our help with the intruders, who are, apparently, someone else besides us. Could we possibly be that lucky?
As terror subsides, rational thinking returns. We should follow the Bobs, to do otherwise may attract attention. Dave is already falling in and signaling for me to catch up. Except now is my perfect chance to exact revenge. As I contemplate how many Bobs this gift of a weapon might cut down, prudent judgment grapples with my thirst for vengeance. The plan is intact. We have to complete the mission. Cut them to pieces later.
Lost in a sea of advancing Bobs, we’re swept along despite my strong urge to hold back. We’re charging into battle whether we like it or not. But who are we fighting? That’s what I’d like to know. If this place has intruders, that means enemies of the Association, in other words—
our allies.
The mob forges ahead, waving weapons and hollering, with us hopelessly jammed in with the goons. I’m reminded of soldiers charging across a battlefield, sparking memories I’d rather not look at right now, especially the terror each holds. The present is terrifying enough. Might we step aside and let the Bobs fight their own battle?
Too many past experiences cry out,
No!
All fueled by grisly visions of our untimely end. Transferring out of the infantry to become a combat engineer was for good reason—sneak around and wiggle out of tight spots instead of thrown at them head-on. I am not a number, just another soldier, an expendable portion of a larger force.
Ahead, the hallway intersects another where the front-line troops turn, heading into the next corridor. Beyond the corner, cracking snaps and brilliant flashes brighten the coming passage. Charred bodies soar back and litter the floor, prompting the mob to slow their advance. Yeah, a good idea, since your buddies up front just got toasted.
Electrobeams streak past and deafening snaps torture my ears. The armaments around the corner are something new. In contrast to the thin stick blast rifles favored by the goons, whatever the intruders are packing, their weapons lack the familiar whizzing, rather sound more like a whip cracking, followed by a whoosh that ends in a sizzle. Even greater contrast is the result—the poor bastards who turned the corner came back in pieces tough to identify. Unlike the Bobs I zapped before, these guys aren’t getting up to straighten their jackets, ever.
More Bobs push through the crowd, advancing to the front line, equipped with body armor, helmets, and handheld cannons. They pass the rest of us unprotected fools and turn the corner. After a volley of weapons fire, a smaller few of the armored troops come soaring back, bloody and sizzling. They did better, but not by much.
An armored soldier calls out, “Fall in behind.”
The goon patrol shuffles forward. Against every effort to hold back, we’re swept along with the rest, destined for certain death by hideous dismemberment. How will I find a new body?
The column reaches the corner and flows around, into the next corridor, identical to the last other than filled with a tangle of scorching beams cutting down Bobs left, right, and center. The intruders wear snug bodysuits all black, complete with gloves and tight cloth clinging to their heads, like ski masks that hide all but eyes and mouth. Some tend to massive cannons that generate the ear-shattering snaps, and others armed with blast pistols scale the walls like spiders, deftly evading Bobs and their lousy aim while striking back with deadly accuracy. These guys are good, crack shots and unusual tactics. What seems disconcerted independent action is actually an illusion. In fact, the intruders are tightly coordinated, yet the Bobs would never suspect as they struggle to follow the seemingly random formations. But I recognize it. I know these tactics.
“Fire your weapon,” a Bob calls out from behind.
Right, I’m a bad guy today, and should be firing before we appear out of place, sure to be exposed as spies, or at a minimum, harshly disciplined for severe lack of courage in the line of duty. But I can’t fire at my allies. As a compromise, I let off a few stray rounds, aimed carelessly at the walls and ceiling, even a couple—completely by accident of course—landing squarely in the backs of my pretend comrades. These things happen in the chaos of battle. Dave follows my example, blasting the hallway, not to mention a Bob now and then, which no one seems to notice. Most of the confused troops are doing the same themselves.
Engaging in battle, against allies or otherwise, was not part of the plan. Time for this nightmare to end. I signal for Dave to follow and struggle to the side, forcing our way across the advancing horde. An approaching door is our only escape from this insanity. The mob charges ahead and the door draws near. We shove and claw our way through the goons, the door bursts open, and a flood of reinforcements emerge from a stairwell.
We squeeze between an endless stream of agents and get past the doorway, then fight our way up the stairs. The flow thins and we quicken our ascent, passing a few stragglers.
One of them snatches hold of me. “Hey,” Bob says, rattling my jacket. “Where are you going? The intruders are downstairs.”
A few steps higher, Dave turns back. “There’s more on level five. Hurry!” He sprints up the steps. With Bob distracted, I get loose and catch up with Dave. Round we go up the stairs, and turning onto the next flight, I notice someone close behind. Bob is following us.
At level five we burst from the stairwell, our wannabe friend right on our heels. The hallway is identical to downstairs, same gleaming tile, the same bare walls. A duplicate in every detail, except this hallway is deserted.
“What are you talking about?” Bob says. “Nobody’s up here.”
I whirl around. “Look, pal, we’re on a secret mission, okay? So if you want to stay out of trouble, you’d better run along now and join your buddies downstairs.”
“You know,” Dave says, “it won’t stay a secret if you keep telling everyone.”